


Re-possession

by kapakoscheisigma



Category: Doctor Who (1963), Star Trek: Deep Space Nine
Genre: M/M, Mental Instability, Possession
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-06-03
Updated: 2014-06-03
Packaged: 2018-02-03 07:47:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1736861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kapakoscheisigma/pseuds/kapakoscheisigma
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The TARDIS detects a temporal anomaly and in taking the Doctor to a Wormhole inavertantly triggers some latent calling card the Black Guardian left in Turlough. Can the Doctor help Turlough without help? And who are The Prophets and the Pah Wraiths?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Re-possession

Turlough awoke with an angry jolt. What had he been dreaming of? He was stretched out diagonally across the bed naked, lying on his belly, the bed sheets bunched up in a ball by his feet, pillows thrown on the floor. He rolled over on to his side and hugged his knees to his chest. He still felt angry. Something to do with the Doctor. What? He’d left him again. What was new? Did the Doctor sleep? Turlough remembered staying awake time after time to see when the Doctor left, but eventually he realised the Doctor only left after he’d fallen asleep! And if the Doctor wanted to do something then Turlough suspected he was lulled to sleep somehow telepathically. At least, Turlough wouldn’t put it past him. Was that it? Turlough felt an angry shout in his head: don’t mess with my mind! Oh no! Not again!

He opened his eyes. Blood was on the sheets. How could that be? Turlough wanted to be angry, blame the Doctor, but how could he, if it was anyone’s blood it was more likely to be the Doctor’s, although Turlough was always careful, always used so much lube, more than was necessary, but massage was nice, he liked to take things slowly. He looked at his fingernails – drying humanoid blood. Drying Gallifreyan blood. At the same time he tasted the blood in his mouth.

Turlough remembered the sudden need for violence, pulling the Doctor up to his knees, the digging and raking of his nails over his hips, the pushing him back down and biting his neck, his shoulder, so deep he’d drawn blood. He remembered as they lay there, as he’d pushed himself into that cool Gallifreyan interior that gentle, invading probing of his mind, the invading telepathic touch that spoke of love beyond language, something other, yet always loving, and yet this time...

The joining of minds as bodies had appealed to Turlough, made it so special, unlike the school boy fumblings with humans and the comfort sex in the war on Trion, but suddenly it had angered him, disturbed him, that this Time Lord was in his mind even as he was in the Time Lord’s body, taking away the control as he gave it to him. Typical Doctor sleight of hand.

Turlough covered his face with his hands and groaned. What had he done? He now had a vivid recollection of screaming, snarling, biting, scratching, kicking, punching and then of pushing the Doctor off the bed. No, the blood on the sheets wasn’t his, but definitely the Doctor’s, and by no accident of passion either. Why had he done it, he liked the Doctor, respected him, loved him maybe, although he’d never admit to that. He’d never deliberately hurt him, it wasn’t the Doctor’s fault, he was nothing but good, he was goodness himself. So why had the lightest, gentlest of telepathic brush repelled him?

Something else was there? The Black Guardian, maybe?

Oh no! Not again! Please, not again!

“Doctor! Doctor!” Panic struck. Turlough leapt out of bed and ran out of their bedroom. He got half way towards the console room when an overwhelming wave of nausea swept over him and somewhere, a long way away, as if under water, he heard the TARDIS Cloister Bell. Something was wrong, badly wrong. Sick and dizzy, he slipped into unconsciousness.

 

 

The brightness hurt his eyes. He felt sick, his head hurt, he was shivering, and worse of all he felt an uncontrollable terror. He could hear the TARDIS gong still. He tried opening his eyes again. No good, too painful. He felt something soft around him and he was dressed in his pyjamas. He was wrapped in a blanket, soft, slightly scratchy Earth wool. He pulled it half over his face and peeked.

He was in the console room; he must be lying on the Georgian chaise lounge from the angle of his view. The Doctor had his back to him, standing at the central console, studying something. From the angle of his shoulders and the way he had his left hand grabbing at the back of his neck Turlough knew the Doctor was confused. Still there was the Cloister Bell tolling and the Doctor was muttering to himself. Someone had apparently messed with time, altered sixty years of history, of time. Time Lord business then, no direct threat to the TARDIS then. So they were safe then. Good. Turlough longed for some peace and quiet.

“And you will Turlough. I was taking you...”

 

The Doctor had turned to look at him, and had heard his mind directly, obviously. Even if he did that he didn’t usually act on it. Still, at least this time it didn’t drive Turlough crazy. He interrupted the Doctor. He was shocked at how weak his voice sounded.

“What’s wrong?”

“With you or with Time?”

Sod time! “With me.”

“Somehow the energy beings in this nebula have brought to the surface of your subconscious something the Black Guardian left – his calling card, if you will.” The Doctor beamed in what he hoped was a reassuring manner and knelt down beside the chaise lounge, putting a solicitous hand on Turlough’s, his bright blue eyes nothing but concern, no blame or chastisement despite the fact under his clothes his body must still bear the marks of Turlough’s violent outburst. The Doctor’s blond fringe fell onto his face, making him seem ridiculous young for all his centuries. Turlough wanted to reach out and push the blond hair back, to card his fingers through that fine hair and apologize for earlier. But the worry and concern in those intelligent, old, so old, eyes made Turlough grow more afraid rather than be reassured, which is what the Doctor had presumably hoped.

“Am I going mad?”

“No Turlough, but you need rest and...”

The gong ceased, as had the time rotor. They had dematerialized. The door opened on to nothing.

“I have to go.” The Doctor stood up and headed for the door, grabbing his panama hat from the hat stand and dropping it on his head.

Turlough wobbled to his feet, wrapping the green tartan blanket around him. “Don’t leave me.” He gave the Doctor his best – or worst – kicked puppy dog gaze. “I’ll get dressed and...”

“No.” Turlough recognized the tone as too authoritive to argue with, although he would have bet real money Tegan would have tried were she still with them. “You’ll be safe here,” the Doctor went on. Turlough wondered if the Doctor meant he would be safer without Turlough around him. 

Suddenly the Doctor turned and came back to him, grabbing him and kissing him deeply. That was unusual. And very, very bad. Either the Doctor was off certain death or Turlough was a lot sicker than the Doctor was telling him. Well, he scowled to himself, he wasn’t being left alone.

 

 

Dressed, Turlough was annoyed to find that he was locked in. The Doctor had actually instructed the TARDIS to keep him inside. Cheek! Annoyance turned to anger which turned to hate. Hatred of the Doctor washed over him that was so intense he was nauseous and dizzy all over again. He had to stop this, to take to control of his mind, to control...

He was screaming to shut out that song of hate in his head, his fingers twisting in his red hair, pulling it away from his scalp, hurting himself externally to stop the pain inside his head, inside his mind. He mustn’t hate the Doctor. He didn’t hate the Doctor. He didn’t want to kill him. He’s mine. Mine!

 

He came to on the floor, hands still tangled in his hair. He wanted to be sick but his stomach was empty. He twisted his neck up and saw the viewer was activated. Who had done that? The TARDIS? Was the TARDIS offering him a distraction from his madness? How kind, the TARDIS didn’t seem to like him as he sensed it had other companions. But then he wasn’t a companion, was he? Or not just a companion. He was a lover.

A red hot knife in his guts, a shout in his head! This time he was retching as he fought the overwhelming hatred and fear of the Doctor, the all-consuming desire to hurt, punish and kill. The voice whispered that he was lover to an alien entity centuries old, of whom he knew nothing but the fact he used others to do his killing, his dying, for him. He hated the Doctor, he hated...

No! The room was spinning, lights too bright. Turlough forced himself to look at the view screen.

It wasn’t a planet, it wasn’t space. Blue and white and flashing lights from what appeared to be vertron nodes. They were inside a wormhole. Or perhaps some huge, artificial construct akin to cyberspace? There was nothing else, or at least nothing but swirling bluish-white mists and the odd flashing blue light, nothing to give any other clue to the TARDIS’s location. 

Where had the Doctor gone? Turlough suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of loss. Where was the Doctor? He needed him. He loved him. Drowned by this rollercoaster ride of love and hate, need and fear that was now beyond his control Turlough hunched up, hugging his knees and whimpered like a cornered animal.

Eventually he forced his head up and saw the Doctor on the view screen coming from nowhere, as it were, walking on – in? – through? the wormhole or whatever it was. Walking on nothing. Turlough was not surprised, he was sure the Doctor could walk on water if he wanted to. Wormholes were nothing.

“Interesting,” said the Doctor as he came in. “They claim this is now the correct timeline.”

“Who?”

“The non-linear being who guard this gateway between two parts of this galaxy.”

“Oh.”

“Interesting, they claim that the Sisko should live.”

“What?”

“Well, it’s a long story... Turlough!” Turlough was screaming again. On the floor, one arm cradling Turlough, the Doctor reached out his other arm to the console to set the TARDIS on course for the nearest point of help, the nearest medical help. A companion like Tegan or Adric he could help through possession, but not Turlough. Turlough was far, far too close for his own mind to remain aloof and distant, and therefore unaffected.


End file.
